Tableau
by Kokolo
Summary: His target screamed and writhed, smiling and saying things never to be said. Not to anyone else but him- He had promised! -Mentions of Sex, Stalking, and Character Death.- Gregstophe. Oneshot.


**I really have no excuse for this. I just wanted to examine the messed up and play around with formats and point of view and me all literary. Plus, it was fun.  
Based on the song Wake Up Call by Maroon 5 and my beta's insistence I write angsty angst angst.**

**Warnings: Death, Blood, Gay, Stalking, Sex, Cursing, potentially badly translated French - not necessarily in that order.  
Enjoy  
**

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How beautiful a tableau they found themselves trapped in.

Mole straight in the dark room, exceptionally stiff for something so normal for him. Moments before the gun had gone off and it smoked idly in his hand. Mole mimicked his firearm, casually inhaling what remained of his cigarette. Usually he wouldn't smoke on the job – the sent would give him away should the wind find pleasure in shifting against him.

But this job he took special care with. This job was important. It meant more than anything to Christophe to take this one on his own. It was of a…personal matter. There was no paycheck involved. There was no gain. Ze Mole was not invested in this nearly as much as Christophe was. Christophe had disappeared for some time – perhaps a year, maybe more. He had left his target alone for a quite a while – not that it had mattered. There was no worry, not with him. Christophe had left with a short, silent goodbye and the assurance that would return.

To Ze Mole, that had been more than enough.

But it hadn't been.

He'd found his target easy enough. He… hadn't bothered to move. It both pleased and confused Ze Mole – he always figured there would be more of a challenge. His target had always liked challenges. Ze Mole wondered if he had gone soft, but the thought quickly perished. His target would never dull, at least not to him. His target kept him on his toes, knew what buttons to press, what techniques to use, and was never riled. Christophe had found him reading a book, smiling softly to himself, the silver cross of the God he so worshiped held delicately between his teeth while he concentrated on the passage.

But he had also found someone else.

He was a brunette (he always did seem to like them with darker hair), with tanned skin and dark eyes. He was taller than his target, but only slightly so. He wasn't very strong by the look of him. Didn't even seem to possess the hidden strength of his target. He was average, but good looking enough to hold the interest of his target- at least not nomally. This, Christophe did not like. This man could not protect him. This man could not save him. This man was not cultured or intelligent or cunning. This man wasn't the kind his target would ever associate with. This man was a stranger, a worthless, nameless stranger. This man was not Christophe, and to think something as trivial as hair and skin tone could be made into his replacement-

Ze Mole could already taste blood.

This man took his target to dinner. This man laughed and made terrible jokes. This man ate like a pig and talked with his mouth full and drank his wine far too quickly. This man was tolerated and treated, smiled at and charmed. This man didn't offer more than once to pay. This man took his target back home. This man held his target's hand. This man took his target up the stairs. This man was laughing and smiling. This man took his target to bed.

Their bed.

He kissed the pale skin. He held the lithe body. He stroked the blond curls. He teased a smile from the thin lips and kissed it until it blossomed into a grin. He drew the body up into his arms and held it, rocked against it, touched it, fucked in ways that allowed Christophe only the option to watch in silent horror. Then he did it over and over again. His target had screamed and writhed, smiling and saying things never to be said. Not to anyone else but him – he had promised!

Even after the display ha ended and the two had fallen asleep Christophe felt something throb in his chest. He felt something boil and stir into a frenzy. He felt his teeth bite clean through the filter and clench together so forcefully his jaw began to ache. Despite this he kept his hands from shaking and carefully entered, standing still. Watching. Watching like he had been for weeks now. The same pattern. The same damned thing every damned time. Few things angered Ze Mole more than monotony.

So he had ended it.

Ze Mole had fired two shots – one to wake the man who had so wrongly taken his place and the man who had so wronged him, and another to shoot the strange man dead. A bullet lodged peacefully in his brain, a fine mist coating the pillows and part of the cheek of the blond man, who only stared.

And there they remained for quite some time.

He could have said anything, any single thing in that moment, and Christophe would have gunned him down. Heartbreak was not something the mercenary wanted to deal with for an extended period. To eliminate the source seemed the quickest way to halt the discomfort.

But he said nothing. He made no noise. He made no sound.

Instead he shed a tear. A single tear.

And like that Ze Mole was struck dumb.

He lowered his revolver; smoke pouring out both his and the gun's muzzle as the last of his cigarette burned away. His target… did not cry. Who was this man whose lover he had murdered? It certainly looked like the man he once confessed his love to. The same flaxen hair, the same blue eyes that bore into him like drills, the same tremble in his fingertips when he rose from bed in the dead of night, the same elegant gait as he crossed the hardwood floor and stopped before him. Even the same cold tips in his fingers, gliding over his ruddy cheek, resting in the same spot above his ear.

"You're alive." The same voice whispered, trembling as much as the body "You've come back to me."  
"Ah alvays come 'ome, Gregory." Christophe heard himself say. He gave himself no permission to speak, and yet a voice surprisingly like his own echoed in the quiet room.

He smelled of sex and gunpowder and blood.  
All the things Christophe loved.  
He could have killed that man.

Gregory took one of his rough, bloodied hands in both his smaller ones, grasping it. Christophe stared at him. The audible drip-drop of blood began, the sheets having absorbed all they could. Casually he removed the long-dead butt from his mouth and waited for the end. Mole had stayed to long for any job. Any moment now, the alarm would sound. Security would swarm. The dogs would come. He shut his eyes and waited for the inevitable shot that would end him for being so careless, so tactless, so pathetic.

But it was silent.

"I knew you would come back." Gregory whispered, standing half naked before him when he opened his eyes, bathed in moonlight. Perfect. Beautiful. Venerable. "I knew you loved me."

Mole stood silent as Gregory wept, watching the tears drip off his face, landing with the same drip drop as the blood of the dead man. The mercenary had no idea how to act or react. He knew what to do after a murder such as this. He knew what to do when Gregory was close. He knew what to do when he had been screwed over in any way.

Kill until there was nothing left. Then collect the money and move on.

He did not know how to console. He did not know how to wipe the tears away from his lovers face. He didn't know how to make this better – only how to make this worse. He knew only to take he boy to bed, not how to show he loved him. How could he love, or be loved, especially by someone who just moments before declared the same feeling to a dead man in his bed?

Their bed.

Gregory had released his hand, instead holding his shoulders. Christophe snorted at his boldness but made no move to stop him. Slowly, a face spattered in blood pressed against his.

"You do love me, don't you?" The blond murmured, "Don't you, mon amour?_ J__e vous ai aimé pour toujours. Je vais le faire toujours._"  
"Zen vhat vas 'e?" his voice was thick with… something that the merc couldn't quite identify.

Gregory froze, his breath catching. The tears had stopped – Christophe was proven to be real. There was no reason to cry at the illusion. Not a tear was to be wasted on the dead man. The Englishman discovered that, in this moment of weakness, he had completely forgotten the mans name, his identity. He might as well have been a hit. A target. A tomb. A paycheck. Nothing else much mattered to him, and Gregory smiled, wiping his wet face, leaving pinked streaks across his cheek.

"Does it matter?" He asked, shaking again, pressing his hand to the filthy cheek.  
"Non." The mercenary replied, eyes darting between the reverent stare of the British angel and the corpse. "_Non_."

Christophe let himself be kissed, but would not allow himself to respond. He waited. Waited for the cold muzzle of the pistol Gregory kept in the bedside table or the icy feeling of his favorite blade to cut into his skin, forcing his blood to touch the stranger's. But there was nothing. No shot, not cut, no cold. In face the mercenary found himself oddly warm, almost surrounded by it. Gregory seemed to shake at his lack of response, his smaller hands gripping delicately at his shoulders, leaving tiny imprints in the dirt. Mole felt that sharp throb in his chest again, though it was this time decidedly much warmer than before.

Carefully, he raised the arm holding the weapon, sliding the metal across the bare back and under blond curls, letting it rest against the smaller mans spine. He twitched, the heat of the instrument burning him, but he made no move to pull away. He was not afraid of being shot; at this angle Mole would not only blow the Brit's head to bits but also lodge a bullet in his own brain, and Mole would never stoop so low as to only take one person out with him when he decided it was time to die. Besides- Gregory and Christophe both knew that if he was there for his blood, Gregory would be dead already.

After what seemed like tortuous hours, Gregory felt the slightest movement under his fingers. The body seemed to pulse, coming to a decision about this whole situation while the consciousness still reeled in confusion. Barely, just barely, Christophe returned the muted, desperate display of affection. Gregory smiled. He knew now. No matter what the indiscretion, Mole had come to the conclusion that, forgiveness granted or not, there was something still linking them together. There was _something_ holding him in place, something pure or animalistic or just some part of the Frenchman's code allowing him to respond. Gregory had come to own that part of him long ago, and it showed.

And after what seemed like only seconds consciousness caught up and the body responded in earnest, taking him up like he was no more than a toy. He sheathed the gun and replaced it with his filthy palm big enough to snap the thin neck. In that bruising grip Mole broke the kiss, something resembling a smile stretching across his face as he walked forward with Gregory trapped in his arms.

"I 'ate you." Christophe purred "I 'ate you. I vill never vorgive you for zeese."  
"I know."

Christophe laid him down on the bed, half over the bloody body of the former lover. He growled and lashed forward, biting Gregory's pale neck hard enough to make it bleed, clawing his arms with his grubby fingers until the other man cried out in anguish. He lifted his head, dark eyes staring.

"I could keel you now an no 'on vould know." He murmured "Eet vould be so easy."  
"I know."

Christophe stripped them of their clothing, taking time to claw and mark the flawless body while it screamed and writhed in pain. Gregory was marked as his and, satisfied with his work, Mole sealed the arrangement with a kiss hard enough to make them both bleed. He groaned at the taste of blood, lifting the body up on top of the other, using the corpse for leverage and support.

"_Je t'aime. _I love you, you fockeeng bitch. _Je. Personne d'autre._ _Vous seul êtes la mienne et la mienne_. Never vorget zis."  
"I know."

He took the beautiful, bloody, bastard, British boy then and there, making him scream and cry his name over and over and over and over again until there was no more left in either of them. They collapsed, exhausted and spent, blood pooling around them. The body would be disposed of later, minced and buried, along with the sheets. For now it served as support, both mentally and physically, reminding them over and over what was and what forever will be.

They fell into a final tableau, heaving and bloody, staring quietly at each other, silently promising never to forget.

**

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Damn these two are messed up. I didn't do nearly as much justice to the mind-fuckery as I would have hoped, but I do hope you enjoyed anyway.**

**Quick translations :**

**Je vous ai aimé pour toujours. Je vais le faire toujours = **I've loved you forever. I always will.  
**Non** = No**  
Je t'aime = **I love you.  
**Je. Personne d'autre = **Me. No one else.  
**Vous seul êtes la mienne et la mienne =** You are mine and mine alone.


End file.
